Pity the Living
by Callophilia
Summary: "Sherlock would see John with his own eyes. Reassure himself that the worst was not happening. He feared that John was becoming a shell of his former self." Angst! Post Fall!


John wrote nothing on his blog. There was no news that Sherlock could garner from that source so he abandoned it quickly. Two weeks into his apparent death he had decided that he could stay in the house no more. Molly, as generous a hostess as any, lived her life as normal. Sherlock found himself skimming over her anatomy books quietly, he had given the fiction section a miss after finding a book called 'Twilight'.

He had enough of laying low. His 'funeral' had been a week and four days ago. That was the last time he had left the house without a disguise. Since then he had disguised himself in urban outfits that almost made him shudder. He would be honest and admit that he missed going out in his lovely coat and scarf. But no. They would be easy to recognise.

Sherlock was anxious and had had enough of wondering what John was doing. He knew that he didn't stay in the flat any more, the live feed from the camera in the corner had showed him that much.

Molly had told Sherlock that John had stopped by the morgue.

"He looked lost." She had said rather sadly.

Sherlock almost snorted. "How could he be lost, he knows the hospital like the back of his hand."

Molly looked at him with an expression that felt admonishing and almost pitying. "He's lost without you. I don't even think he realised he had walked there... He had two coffees. He lied and said one was for me, but I know he walked in expecting to find you sitting with your eyes glued to a microscope."

Molly Hooper. How could Sherlock have dismissed this woman so easily? She saw and knew so, so much. Sherlock didn't reply and she went on to say how she couldn't talk to him; she said she was busy but it was really that her insides were writhing in guilt. John had walked away crestfallen, both coffees abandoned on the metal counter.

No.

This couldn't go on.

Sherlock would see John with his own eyes. Reassure himself that the worst was not happening. He feared that John was becoming a shell of his former self.

He had straightened his unruly hair with Molly's straighteners, ran a little wax through it to make himself look unlike himself. He pulled a grey hoodie on, slid some thick framed glasses on and pulled on a black backpack. The jeans he had been lounging about in would suffice and the converse he pulled on finished the ensemble.

Appraising himself in the mirror Sherlock saw, not his usual elegant and composed self, but a lanky young adult.

John might see him but he wouldn't _see _him.

The contents of the backpack were important. He would place a live feed camera in John's room in his sisters flat, that's where he stayed now. Not, in Sherlock's opinion, the best place for a person in mourning to be but he couldn't interfere. He would watch. He would have this little consolation prize.

The journey was swift, the earphones he had slipped in were just for show. No music diluted his senses. He calmly walked up to Harry's flat door as though he belonged there, for that was the most integral part of a disguise, he plucked the key from under the doormat (how original) and slipped in silently.

No one was home, he wasn't fool enough to do this if either occupant were home. He had the pleasure of a look around the flat to garner any possible bits of information.

A number on the fridge for John's therapist. Another number for Harry's. Empty alcohol bottles in the recycle bin, enough for two alcoholics.

Each object told a story and none of them had a happy ending.

John's room, however, was like a eulogy.

John had been living basic. The clothes he had taken from home were still in a suitcase and there were very few. Sleeping pills sat unopened on the bedside table. A half empty bottle of whiskey on the desk beside the laptop no glass. Sherlock didn't need to look in the part open drawer to see what was in there. The gun. He winced as he pulled the drawer open, the ease with which it slid out screamed volumes to him. It was the only object in there.

The wardrobe in the corner was his hiding place for the tiny spying device. He placed the chair he stood on back in front of the desk just as he had found it.

He swept out of the flat as quiet as a ghost, closing the door gently and laying the key back in its resting place beneath the mat. Sherlock became another man in the street as he walked along the pavement.

He was lost in his thoughts and fought hard to stop from stopping dead at the sight of John walking down the street.

Except it wasn't John. Not his John anyway.

This was the man he had briefly met, but didn't get to know.

It was ex-army doctor, John Watson. His limp had returned. The cane he leaned on was a knife through Sherlock's stomach. The dark circles under his eyes almost made Sherlock wince. His lacklustre gaze almost made him sob.

As they passed one another Sherlock braced himself.

Nothing.

There was the slap of soft leather on pavement and Sherlock glanced back to see John walking away from his wallet, unaware it had fell out of his pocket. An internal battle was fought quickly and Sherlock swept the wallet up as he walked towards John.

Slouch.

No eye contact.

Speak in a higher tone.

Speak with an accent.

"'Scuse me." John turned around and swept an unseeing glance over Sherlock, his eyes landing on his wallet. "You dropped this, mate."

"Oh." Sherlock didn't realise he could miss the sound of John's voice. "Thanks."

A part of Sherlock screamed at John. Willed him to see. To end the charade. To see that he wasn't dead. He felt his fingers grip the wallet a bit tighter, unwilling to let John go.

The soft leather slipped out of his fingers.

As John turned Sherlock felt words tumble from his lips.

"Take care of yourself."

John turned to look at the man but found that he had already turned and walked away. Slouching and almost dragging his feet in the way younger people did.

John shook his head.

He didn't hear Sherlock tell him to take care of himself.

He didn't.

This is to fill a prompt from Jiseihanasu, my friend on tumblr. We did a huge RP with Sherlock and John (if you'd like the link just PM me) post-fall. This is a prequel of sorts to that RP.

Sorry for the angst, I eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I snack on reviews, as well, if you fancy leaving one. :)


End file.
